On the plane to America, one person in three had a copy. In California, they were reading it on buses and in diners. In Las Vegas, they clutched it in the swimming pool.

I assume they were all struggling as much as I was. The world seems united in determination to get through the damn thing, comforted by the solidarity of communal effort – like the Blitz, or when everyone went on the Atkins diet.

Most people know the gist, at least, of the story. Improbable virgin Anastasia meets wealthy businessman Christian Grey, CEO of "Grey Enterprises Holdings". (Why not "Grey Business Company Inc Ltd"?)

They then spend 400 pages negotiating a contract for her to become his "submissive" – but don't let that sexy word fool you. It's like reading the legal transcript of a two-year planning application, in real time.

This book is ubiquitously described as "erotic"; something, evidently, is turning people on. But what? It can't be the sex scenes. They are brief, sporadic and tamer than a Legoland tea party. Basically, there's a lot of chat about bondage that doesn't happen. It may seem kinky at first glance, but look again: this is a book that puts the "b" into anal. At one point, a man's penis is referred to as "his essentials". It's so un-erotic, you could read it to sex offenders and call it therapy.

On their first date, Anastasia tells us: "His hands glide across to my breasts, and I inhale sharply as his fingers encircle them, kneading gently, taking no prisoners."

Taking no prisoners? Who's writing this, John Motson? Honestly, try it out loud. Imagine you're enthusing to a friend about a new boyfriend: "He's so handsome, and takes no prisoners in the breast-kneading department."

Moments later, Anastasia is in for a surprise: "Turning to face him, I am shocked to find he has his erection firmly in his grasp."

Leaving aside whether or not this unexpected sight would be sexy (I can't be sure; it's only ever happened to me on public transport), let's examine what Christian says as he stands there, wanger in hand: "I want you to become well acquainted, on first name terms if you will, with my favourite and most cherished part of my body." Oh please. This is supposed to be our 21st-century Mr Rochester, and he talks like Alan Partridge. First name terms? I was only sorry Christian didn't spell it out even further: "Think of my penis as a friend. It's not 'Mr Peters'. It's 'Terry'."

This Partridge quality is hugely problematic. Romantic heroes have always been stern and bossy, for obvious reasons: their autocracy relieves the female fantasist from any responsibility for the filth that's going to ensue. She can remain nice, sweet, ladylike and marriageable. If she ends up naked over a tree stump with her pants between her teeth: not her fault! Just following orders!

In our frank new millennium, EL James doesn't need to drop hints by telling us how her hero treats his horse or dances a quadrille; she cuts to the chase and makes Christian Grey a full-on dominant sadist.

So this is a man to be taken utterly seriously. A masterful dictator who inspires respect, solemnity and guilt-free submission to his demanding whim. And yet, also (in chapter nine) a man who peers down at Anastasia and says: "Well done Miss Steele. You get an A in oral skills."

No woman could possibly find this arousing. She'd have to be turned on by the idea of canes and chains – without being turned off by pernickety contracts, nerdy "safe words" and puns that Roger Moore would have blushed at in 1983.

So: what is the erotic charge? I have a theory. Here are a few quotes, chosen from dozens of examples in the book's 500 pages.

"CONTRACT APPENDIX ONE. The submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing."

"'I have issues with wasted food. Eat,' he snaps."

"'As much as I'd like to take you here and now, you need to eat,' he murmurs against my lips.'"

"'We know what we want.' Christian's mouth twitches with a small, sexy smile. 'Two portions of buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup and bacon on the side, and two glasses of orange juice.'"

This, I think, is the real 21st-century fantasy. That's the erotica. A masterful man who demands, constantly, that our heroine eats.

After all, women no longer need the excuse of obedience to express their sexual selves (apart from real submissives, for whom, plus ça change). The charade's over. We need no longer pretend that those clothes are coming off against our better judgment.

But what kind of a hussy says openly that she'd like a stack of pancakes and syrup? As if she cared not a fig for social rules of weight and waistline? The unabashed satisfier of calorie cravings: she is today's outlier, outsider and outcast.

If a masterful stranger instructs us to eat pancakes, however, we're not sluts at all. Not our fault! Just following orders! Dear oh dear, another big mouthful? Must I really? That, I posit, is the erotic charge of Fifty Shades Of Grey.

And I really hope I'm right.

Because if I'm not, it means that 2.3 million women in Britain alone (and tens of millions elsewhere) are genuinely turned on by the idea of a man who would stand behind you with his winkle in his hand, and introduce it by name.